


The Copycat Affair

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: An evil scientist, hand-in-hand with an old Nazi officer, has proposed a sneaky and dangerous plan to rule the world! Our heroes have to protect the innocent-in this case an old friend from Waverly's past-and thwart Thrush's evil plans! Did I mention that there's a surprise crossover?





	1. PROLOGUE

**_Monday, April 29, 1968, rural southwestern Pennsylvania_ **

Godfrey Schlamm’s pale eyes glowed with approval behind his thick glasses as he watched the dials on the huge machine move to the pre-set numbers. Examining the panel he made minute adjustments, all the while focusing on the mass contained in the center of the complicated contrivance of wires, tubes, and steel. Although a solidly built man of nearly six feet, he seemed dwarfed by the enormous equipment.

The room was immense. 

Set up like an operating theater, it had a bank of observation windows placed high in the viewing gallery above. Inside this observation room were six men and one woman, their clothing ultra conservative and expensive. The woman, tall with a willowy build, wore a tasteful black sheath and necklace of perfectly matched sea-pearls. Her age was hard to determine; her face was smooth with a youthful look, but something about her eyes hinted at an older woman. The men appeared cast from the same mold—all were of average build, and somewhat overweight, between 50-60 years of age. They too, wore jewelry, the tie tacks and cufflinks obviously Tiffany’s or Breen’s.

Schlamm continued with his readings, seemingly oblivious to the observers in the gallery. He was, however, smugly aware of their scrutiny.

He finally moved back and stopped beside a small board of switches—the main control panel. Looking upward, Schlamm gave a short nod. “It is ready.” His faint German accent lent a touch of drama and underlying expertise to the proceedings.

At his words, the seven observers rose from their seats and moved closer to the windows for a better look.

A humming sound, which had been in the background steadily, grew louder and more insistent. Lights flashed, dials glowed, tubes bubbled as viscous liquids were forced through them. For several minutes nothing else happened. To the casual observer it looked disturbingly like the set for another B horror movie.

Twin beams suddenly lit up on both sides of the inert mass and bore into it, slowly changing the material to a glowing and pulsating substance.

The observers leaned closer, completely captivated by the scene below.

Suddenly the woman and two of the men let out a gasp as the bombarded mass began to writhe!

At first it was a rather sluggish undulation, but quickly began to move faster. As the movements sped up, they appeared erratic, jerky, and ungainly. Shivering bits of the mass began to elongate forming into grim parodies of human limbs.

Schlamm made another adjustment to his dials. A third beam shot out—this time directly into the ‘head’ of the pulsating mass.

Completely caught up in the drama being played out below them, the observers stood frozen as the chest area began to move rhythmically in deep, panting breaths. As they stared, the mass smoothed and firmed into a definite masculine form. Blobs firmed into limbs—slimly muscled arms, strong thighs and calves. Genitals pulsed out. Shadows deepened into eyelids, an aristocratic nose, and sensual lips. The strong chin was soon hidden beneath a reddish beard as the darkened areas atop the head lengthened into sun-kissed, wheaten hair.

A man!

The beams shut off and the humming faded away. For a long moment, no one moved in the sudden silence.

Godfrey Schlamm finally walked away from his dials and over to the ‘man’ lying supine on the catafalque. Moving closer, he gently touched his creation.

The man’s eyes popped open then slowly blinked. His blue eyes stared blankly at Schlamm, who smiled broadly.

“Rest now,” he calmed his creation gently, “Everything is going to be fine.” As he stroked the man’s forearm, he cast a knowing smirk to the gallery overhead, “Just fine.”


	2. ACT I: A Minimalist Artist

**_Three weeks earlier, Thursday, April 11, 1968, New York Headquarters_ **

“I’m at my wits end!” 

“There, there, Cathy, try not to worry.” Mr. Waverly’s tone was consoling. He glanced up as his top two agents entered. “Ah,” He absently patted her clenched hands. “These gentlemen are here to assist with your problem. This is Mr. Solo—” 

“Charmed,” Napoleon murmured.

“—and this is Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya inclined his head.

As they sat in their usual spots, they studied the slim woman seated next to Waverly. Lots of soft, light brown hair pulled neatly back away from her face. Her dark eyes had fine lines—indicative of humor and a life well lived. She was impeccably dressed in a neat, oyster suit and lavender silk blouse. Despite the gray shot through her hair and worry on her face, she had a classic, ageless look. 

The woman observed the two men in return. On the surface they seemed rather ordinary young men, but something intangible marked them as… professionals. The first was dark and strikingly handsome with a friendly smile and warm, brown eyes. The other was a contrast with blond hair, clear blue eyes and a rather somber expression—

Her eyes widened as she stared at Illya, almost as if she’d seen a ghost. Mr. Waverly motioned for them to have a seat. “This is Catherine Callum. Mrs. Callum is a long-time friend of mine and in need of assistance.” Nodding at his friend, he applied a match to the bowl of his pipe and began the process of lighting it. “You may speak freely, my dear. My men can be trusted completely.” When it began drawing sufficiently, he smiled encouragingly.

Mrs. Callum shook herself as she struggled to regain her composure. After a calming breath, her expression turned distant as she related her story. 

“My husband was a pilot during the War. He was captured while on a mission over Germany and kept prisoner until Liberation. Despite this he was able to send out intelligence that helped a good deal in the War effort. Simon, my husband, also became an integral part of getting men out in his role as Escape Officer while incarcerated in Colditz,” She looked over at Waverly and smiled briefly before resuming, “Alex was a tremendous help with his connections to the Ministry and such.” She stared down at her twisting hands, “After the War we changed our name to Callum in order to protect our family. We were expecting our first child…” She glanced back at Waverly and receiving his encouraging nod, blurted out, “Our real name was Carter. It’s a common enough name but before we’d changed it and relocated there had been several disturbing incidents… accidents that made us uneasy Alex was a tremendous help with the necessary papers and connections… I'm sorry, I can't seem to...”

"Quite understandable," murmured Alexander.

She bit her lip, fighting tears of frustration as she glanced over at her mentor. “I... Thank you." She turned back to the agents. "Now... Now someone has discovered our identity and they’re using it against us. We-we’re being blackmailed! If only—!” She broke off and dabbed at her eyes, her handkerchief already sodden from her earlier tears.

Napoleon looked puzzled. “Blackmail, Sir?” 

“Yes, Mr. Solo, blackmail.”

Illya spoke up. “Excuse me, Sir, but isn’t blackmail more the jurisdiction of the local authorities or perhaps the F.B.I.?”

Waverly calmly puffed on his pipe for a moment before answering, “Normally that would be the case. However, this blackmail is a trifle different.” He smiled grimly. “This blackmail money is going to known Thrush accounts. In _every_ instance, the circumstances and modus operandi are the same—the victim is approached within hours after some delicate issue or indiscretion has occurred. The largest amount of money the victim can pay is demanded, and when the money is paid, it gets distributed throughout the world into the various accounts. The subject for extortion is not only delicate. All of the victims—without exception—are at a loss as to how the information could have been obtained.” Waverly gave the tabletop a spin sending some folders to stop in front of the agents.

As they scanned through the reports, Mr. Waverly pressed the intercom button and requested his secretary. He graciously assisted Mrs. Callum as she stood up. “Miss Rogers will see to it that you get back to your hotel.” At her unasked questions, he murmured, “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

Cathy gave a watery smile before touching his hand, “I know you will, Alex.” When she stood up she seemed more confident. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“Of course my dear, leave everything to me,”

She hesitated a moment before she walking resolutely over to Illya. “Pardon me, Mr. Kuryakin is it?” At Illya’s nod she continued. “Forgive my impertinence, but you have the most, uncanny resemblance to my husband. Do you perhaps have relatives in England?”

Illya shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry madam.”

“It’s just that ... well, you could almost be a twin to Simon when he was your age ... perhaps a bit blonder, and no mustache—” She stopped, embarrassed as she looked at Illya more closely. “You’re sure...?”

“Quite sure.” In a gracious move, he took Mrs. Callum’s hand and kissed it in the European manner.

Smiling faintly, cheeks slightly flushed, Mrs. Callum finally followed Miss Rogers out.

When the door slid shut again, Mr. Waverly was staring at his pipe apparently lost in thought. Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, silently sharing their surprise at this unusual behavior. They’d hardly had time to communicate the oddity before their boss sat down, immediately bringing their eyes back on him.

“Gentlemen, you’ve looked over the information we have thus far. Any thoughts?”

“The only point in common seems to be various art shows. But, they were all hosted by different galleries for different artists in different cities.” Solo flipped through the pages as he spoke.

Kuryakin nodded as he gestured to the folders, “Precisely.” He adjusted his glasses and picking up the papers, peered at the report again. “It also seems that the genre is modern art rather than the more traditional or classical art styles with a heavy leaning in the abstract ... the ‘Moandrian’ or ‘Minimalist’ styles.”

“Quite so,” Waverly agreed absently. He picked up his pipe and stared at it for a moment. Still studying the pipe, he said softly, “I will ask that this next information be kept between just the three of us.”

The agents were stunned; this was a surprising edict.

Waverly appeared to be lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was with barely suppressed anger. “As Cathy explained, her husband was a prisoner of war in Germany. They were newlyweds at the time. Naturally she was devastated. She received word he was alive but imprisoned at one of the, ah, harsher camps without possibility of release or escape. They were permitted letters though, and soon incorporated a personal code which got past the censors. 

“You will recall she mentioned her husband was Escape Officer. This meant he would help the others get free, but by necessity, would himself remain incarcerated. As a result, she involved herself in the resistance movement by helping the escapees connect with the European underground.” He harrumphed, “Cathy and I met on one such clandestine mission in France and became friends. My wife took her under her wing, so to speak.

“She was compromised by a traitor within our group and had to be spirited back into England in ’44. Then as she explained, following the War a series of disquieting accidents occurred—too many to be coincidence. She got word to me and after looking into it they were persuaded to take on a new identity. With no immediate family left, this was the best solution.” His heavy brows came down as he added, “Cathy and her husband are heroes—it is completely unacceptable for blackmail or compromises to be made on their safety!”

“So the blackmail is centered on something which happened during the War?”

Waverly hesitated. Staring at his pipe he spoke quietly, “It is certainly connected. When Cathy was betrayed in France, the priority was to get everyone to safety, which included smuggling her back to England as quickly as possible. We rerouted communications and dissolved that particular cell.” His voice became distant as he relived the events from over twenty years prior. “The suspicion was that her husband was somehow involved as a double agent. I had connections and was able to use my influence to stop those rumors. It was because of my, er, unquestionable ties that a more thorough investigation was initiated.

“This eventually proved to be the case,” he paused for a moment before saying carefully, “The traitor overplayed his hand and let slip a piece of information which ultimately led to his exposure to the Heads of State. It was a damning piece of information which could just as easily have been the proof required to brand Carter as the traitor…” Waverly fell silent.

Finally Solo prompted, “What happened? Was he incarcerated?”

“What—? Oh, the traitor… not exactly, er, no. What they did was use him to draw out even more information about the German machine until the end of the War…”

Illumination dawned on the agents simultaneously. “He was never revealed at all.”

Waverly glared. “No. He was not. Fortunately, the Carters... er...Callums were never accused publicly. The entire incident and suspicions were kept quiet which makes this blackmailing scheme even more disturbing.” 

Napoleon gave a short nod. “What do you have in mind for us, Sir?”

Waverly tapped his pipe gently against his knuckle. After a moment, holding the pipe bowl, he pointed the stem at Kuryakin. “You will go undercover as a beatnik artist.” His piercing eyes appraised the agent’s neatly-bohemian appearance, his hair just brushing his collar. “Don’t shave, mess up your hair—I’m sure you can effect a credible disguise. An appropriate flat will be made ready by next week.” He picked up a card and pointed it at Illya, who instantly stood up to retrieve it. “Tomorrow you have an appointment with a,” he glanced at the card, “Ms. Rice. She will instruct you in the current styles of modern art.” 

“What about me, Sir?” 

Waverly fixed Solo with a stern eye. “ _Your_ assignment, Mr. Solo will be Mrs. Callum’s safety. Her family has been sent away on holiday and is under our protection. Cathy, meanwhile, has agreed to further open herself to this ‘blackmail’ so she will need a bodyguard. I would suggest, in keeping with the scheme of blackmail, perhaps you could allow your persona to be, shall we say, less than salubrious?”

 

_**One week later** _

“A nice look for you, Tovarisch,” commented Napoleon brightly as he turned Illya’s head side to side in order to view the reddish growth of beard from all angles.

“It itches,” muttered Illya grumpily, absently rubbing along his jaw.

“All part of the cover.” Napoleon’s eyes twinkled with a gleam of mischief.

“Yes, yes I know…” his voice trailed off.

Napoleon looked sharply at his partner before asking quietly, “Problem?”

Silence as the Russian waged an internal battle within himself. “It’s probably nothing,” he said slowly. 

“But…?” he made it a gentle question as he leaned back in his chair. With insight, he probed further, “It’s something to do with Mrs. Callum herself isn’t it?”

Shooting his partner a rueful glance. “I will admit that it’s somewhat disconcerting to learn of yet another person whom I resemble so strongly.”

A quick flash of Nexor and the uncanny resemblance to his partner sped through Napoleon’s mind. Before he could offer any kind of reassurance though, Illya walked back over to the door.

“I suppose I will have to treat this… no differently,” he decided firmly shrugging on his fleece-lined jacket.

“Going somewhere?” 

Illya smirked. “I’m off to my artist’s studio.”

“Just don’t get too comfortable with it O Minimal Artist,” he grinned back. “You’ll have to return to the clean-shaven, suit and tie look when this is over!”

“That’s Minimalist, and hmmm, I don’t know…”

“You know you’re without backup, so be _careful_.”

“I will if you will,” Kuryakin teased, allowing a tiny grin to appear.

Once the door closed his grin faded as Napoleon reviewed his upcoming role. Finally he got up and made his way down to wardrobe.

“Letitia my love,” he greeted as he spotted the short, matronly woman who was currently leafing through a Modern Teen magazine. He looked over her shoulder admiring the mini-skirted models and grinned, “Shopping?”

Her dark eyes twinkled through her outsize glasses, “But of course.” Closing the magazine she got up and walked over to a garment cart. “I imagine you’re here to pick up your cover outfits.” Deftly sorting through, she pulled a large bag from the middle and handed it to him. “You should try these on so I can check the fit.”

Unzipping the bag Napoleon grimaced but when he touched the suit he actually shuddered. “Letitia!” he wailed.

Arms akimbo, the head of wardrobe gave an evil grin, “Sorry, Napoleon, Waverly’s orders.”

Sighing dramatically, he gingerly picked up the bag and took it into one of the changing rooms. Once inside, he sighed again. One cheap, off-the-rack suit in a rather loud royal blue, a hound’s-tooth black and white sports coat made from polyester… _oh great_ —a burgundy sports coat. _After all the teasing I’ve put Illya through_! There were also a few cheap shirts in slippery polyester—pale green, yellow and _pink! The things I do for UNCLE_ he grimaced as he tried on the offensive garments.

 

_**In a tiny attic on the edge of Greenwich Village** _

Checking the markers he’d left earlier to alert him of any intruders, Illya locked the door of his cover flat. He carried nothing overt in the way of weapons, feeling strangely undressed without his Special, but this would pass as he immersed himself into the role. Dropping his painting supplies on a rough table, he carelessly hung his jacket on the battered hall tree. 

His stomach rumbled. 

He debated about going back out and getting something to eat. He sighed. The long trudge through the village searching for bargains on his paints and canvases (keeping in character) not to mention the long haul up to the fifth floor had been exhausting. Another sigh. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone without a meal and would help maintain the ‘lean, hungry’ look.

He finally made up his mind to go to bed (an old double hidden discretely behind a screen) when he heard the tinkle of a bell. He could hear his landlady shout up to him through the pre-war tube saying he had a phone call.

“I’ll be right down,” he shouted back. As he started out it occurred to him that since he was going downstairs anyway, he may as well bring back dinner. Something simple—perhaps a loaf or two of bread, some cheese… Satisfied, he checked his wallet, locked the door, and hurried downstairs to take the call. While undercover he’d opted against using his communicator to keep in touch, and had to rely on the single payphone located in the first floor hallway.

He was reaching for the dangling receiver when one of the apartment doors opened. An elderly man, bundled in blankets, was in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Illya gave him and the pretty nurse a quick nod before picking up the phone.

“Hello—” Suddenly he was grabbed around the neck in a chokehold by the ‘old’ man! Two more men came out of the flat and in seconds, Illya was completely subdued. Falling unconscious, he was bundled into the wheelchair and taken outside.

 

Illya drifted awake. _A hospital...?_ A tentative flex of his wrist revealed an I.V. line. Various monitors were beeping at intervals from leads attached to his body; heartbeat, respiration. _I didn’t think I was hurt badly enough to warrant all this. What happened…?_

“You’re awake. Splendid.” The slightly-accented voice was almost a whisper.

“Where…?” Throat dry, a low rasp was all he could manage.

“All in good time.” 

There was a faint movement of air as the unknown person left the room, closing the door behind him.

Alone, still dazed, Illya tried to sit up. A careful check showed him the restraints had a little give. Now, if he could only sit up. Alarmingly dizzy and weak from whatever he’d been given, his strength finally deserted him, and he fell back in a heap as the blackness once more closed in.

 

_**Later that night at a cocktail party at the Kennings Art Gallery** _

Cathy Callum nervously twisted her ring. Dressed simply in an elegant deep claret satin and chiffon tea-length gown, her only jewelry diamond drop earrings and a magnificent 3-caret diamond ring in a platinum setting worn on her left hand. The multi-colored scarf draped over a slender shoulder and waist, faintly reminiscent of an Indian sari, made her stand out as both elegant and new-age.

Accepting a glass of white wine from one of the mingling waiters, she walked around the gallery trying to relax as she gazed unseeingly at the various modern art displays. A couple she knew casually through charity events joined her and they began chatting about the fête, their children, and the unseasonable cold until a disturbance at the vestibule suddenly broke through the conversation. 

“Sir, you can’t—”

The man, dark hair slicked back with a heavy-handed application of hair oil, wearing a garishly-loud royal blue suit and a pale pink shirt gave a decidedly oily smirk. His wide tie was black and white check with a single bright red circle at the end. “My good man, I happen to have an invite,” the nasal tones and Bronx accent were accompanied by an imperious wave of the hand.

“Sir—” the butler’s tone was pained, “This is a _formal_ event.”

“Yeah, what of it?” the man looked down at himself, “I’m wearin’ a tie, fer cryin’ out loud!”

Conversation throughout the gallery came to a complete halt except for disapproving murmurs as the various patrons stared at the ‘crasher’ with the cheap suit and loud voice. Mrs. Callum suddenly realized with a start, that she recognized the man—he was one of the agents Alex had assigned to her.

“Mildred, if you’ll excuse me?” Glancing back, she added, “We’ll do lunch sometime,” before she left the couple. She hesitated, not exactly sure what she should do, before slowly walking toward the entrance. _There was always the powder room excuse._

The man—Solo, she remembered—turned toward her and grinned toothily.

“Hey, Missus Cal...uh, Callum!”

Cathy stared, at a loss for words.

The garishly-clad Napoleon Solo gave her a broad wink. “It’s okay; I’m Nathaniel Stone, your new bodyguard.”

“Oh!” she blinked in surprise, “I didn’t...”

“It’s okay, doll,” leered Stone/Solo.

“ _Mr_. Stone, I will not be addressed as ‘doll’!” Cathy was indignant. She didn’t care what role she was expected to play—she drew the line at being called ‘doll’ or ‘baby’ or some other ridiculous appellation.

Stone/Solo looked contrite... a little. With a shrug he said nasally, “Whatever you say, Missus, it’s your buck.” Looking back at the butler, he tugged at his tie, loosening it before looking down his nose (somewhat difficult since said butler was well over six feet tall). “I don’t need a formal invite since I’m here pertectin’ Missus Callum.” 

Ignoring him, the butler inclined his head obsequiously to Mrs. Callum and asked, “Is this...‘gentleman’ with you, Madam?”

“Yes he is, Jenkins.”

Lowering his voice he whispered, “Would you like me to call the authorities?” obviously concerned that this man had some kind of hold over the lady.

Cathy looked blank for a moment before laughing softly, “Oh no! Truly, it’s all right.” Unable to resist, she impishly added in a singularly dry tone, “I’ll see to it Mr. Stone behaves.”

Stone/Solo took her arm and gently guided them out to the terrace. Snagging a couple of drinks on the way, he offered one of them to Cathy.

She took the drink automatically, “What—?”

Napoleon placed a finger over her lips and drew her arm through his. Placing his lips by her ear, he whispered, “Have you been approached by anyone...unusual?”

In the dim light, he could just make out the gleam in her eye, “Other than yourself, I presume?” she answered sardonically. Suddenly serious she added, “No one in particular. I’ve spoken with some acquaintances of mine… Mildred and Chester Martin.”

“How well do you know them?”

“About as well as anyone who attends these things...you know, functions we’ve attended, boasting a bit about our children, recent acquisitions...that sort of thing.”

“Who approached whom?”

“Oh. It was Chester...”

Looking keenly at his charge, Napoleon pressed further, “Tell me what happened.”

Biting her lower lip, she concentrated. “I was mingling around like you said. Jenkins greeted me—he’s been at a number of these events. I took a glass of wine from one of the waiters when Chester came over. Mildred joined him and we just started talking—you know, casual chit-chat, catching up. Then Chester asked about any ‘leads’ on new investments,” she made a face remembering, “and began boasting about a new painting he’d just sponsored.”

“Is that his usual behavior?”

“He would _like_ it to be. Friendlier, I mean. Frankly, I find him a boor. His wife is a darling, though, which is why I put up with him.” Frowning she added slowly, “Now that I think of it, no, he’s actually on the...um, cheap side.” She shivered suddenly.

“Cold?”

“Not really...it just feels as though someone walked over my grave.” 

Solo’s instincts aroused. _Something was off_ … Drawing Cathy nearer, he whispered, “We’re leaving.”  
Nodding, she drew the colorful scarf closer around her shoulders as Napoleon cupped her elbow, leading her back inside. Jenkins stepped in front of them as they reached the door.

“Is there a problem, Madam?”

“Oh no,” Cathy managed a prim smile, “I, ah, have a headache.”

“Shall I call a taxi?”

“Nah, Missus Callum is gettin’ a ride from me, seein’ as how I got my car,” interjected Stone/Solo in his nasal tone.

“Very good, Madam,” Jenkins opened the door for the pair.

 

Inside the underground parking garage, Solo’s agent reflexes keyed up even more. Grasping Mrs. Callum’s hand securely in his left one caused her to look at him sharply with frightened but steady eyes. Aside from the initial intake of breath, she remained silent. Giving a reassuring squeeze, he drew his Special from his shoulder holster. 

They walked cautiously through the all-but-deserted garage. It was eerily silent except for their footfalls on the echoing concrete. Stopping, Solo glanced around again. _Something was definitely wrong_. Cathy, aware that she could be a liability quickly slipped off her pumps, preparatory for action.

A shot rang out, chipping a small piece off the concrete pylon—just missing Napoleon’s ear! Pulling her down sharply, they crouched behind the pillar. A rapid barrage of gunfire rang out, hitting the side of the car in front of them, leaving a row of large bullet holes.

In a crouching run, Solo pulled his charge along the length of the car. Reaching the rear, he checked for cover. A few parking spaces over a late model Cadillac was parked next to the stairwell. On the other side of the stairs were three other cars. One-handedly pulling out his communicator, he twisted it and whispered, “Open Channel D.”

Nothing—not even static.

Twisting again, he whispered urgently, “Open Channel D!”

Frustrated, he twisted it closed and shoved it into his jacket.

“Mrs. Callum, were you involved in the war effort enough to become proficient with a gun?” Solo asked in a near soundless whisper.

“I learned shoot as a girl, and yes, I honed those skills during the war.”

Napoleon reached down, pulled out his spare gun from his ankle holster, and handed it over. Reassured as she confidently took the small gun, hefted it, and checked the clip for ammunition, he whispered, “I’ll draw them off; you’ll need to get to that stairwell and call for backup. We can’t get a signal down here.” He ran through the steps on using the communicator.

Pale, she nodded again as she flattened herself down against the Cadillac.

Solo quickly crept along the car until he reached the front. In a sudden move he dove for the other vehicles, eliciting more gunfire. 

 

Illya felt as though he was wading through something thick and unyielding as he swam back to consciousness. Struggling to open his eyes against gummed eyelids he realized he was still in restraints. _No surprise there._ He squeezed open his eyes... _Alone_! Moving his head caused a sudden wave of nausea bringing bile to his throat.

Forcing that down he did a quick self-inventory. Lying naked on a gurney he noted with relief that he seemed to be intact. There was quite bit of bandaging though—on his inner arm just below the elbow, on his hip and torso. He also had a fiercely punishing headache. It didn’t seem to be localized in any particular area such as from a blow to the head… so, drugs. He dismissed it.

The change in air pressure told him a door had opened.

“So pleased to see you’re awake again.” The same voice as before.

Kuryakin said nothing.

“I am Godfry Schlamm. Until now I have worked in the background, but now that Thrush has seen my preliminary results, they are eager to finance my research.”

Illya remained silent.

Another door clicked open. Low whispering before Schlamm announced, “I have some… unfinished business. We will continue this later.”

Alone again, Illya studied his surroundings. Definitely a laboratory and a well-equipped one at that, but what were they up to and what did they want with him? Deciding escape was his first priority, he tested his restraints again.

The strap holding his legs had a little give to it. Wriggling around in earnest, Illya managed to slip first one leg and then the other free. Scooting down and exhaling got him out from under the chest restraints. Now all that remained were his wrists. Idly noting the almost uncomfortably warm temperature, he took advantage by utilizing the sweat trickling down his body.

A small cupboard held a stack of scrubs that he quickly donned. Shrugging on the lab coat from a nearby hook, he spotted another drawer that had been hidden by the coat. Curious he glanced inside. It looked like a cache of personal belongings; a bag of peppermints, sunglasses, and a small canvas duffle bag with a pair of sneakers inside. There was also a pair of thick, clean socks rolled neatly in a ball. Rapidly pulling on the socks and shoes, he listened intently for sounds of the doctor’s return.


	3. ACT II: Working for the Competetion

**_Early the next morning_ **

“—and that was it,” Illya completed his report to Waverly. He’d spent most of the night submitting to an extensive exam and blood workup in Medical. 

“At least you have a clean bill of health,” interjected Napoleon. Illya rolled his eyes at that as Waverly scanned through the report in front of him. 

“The issue at hand, Mr. Kuryakin, is the matter of how you were spotted so quickly.” Waverly’s blunt question went directly to the heart of the matter.

Illya shook his head ruefully, at a loss to see what he could have missed. Still deep in thought he mused, “What was it they hoped to gain? Medical reports showed nothing abnormal. Scans produced nothing out of the ordinary… so what was their purpose?”

A thoughtful expression came over Napoleon’s face. “I suppose it _could_ be simple coincidence that Illya was grabbed… _but_ the timing was too smooth. There has to be a leak of some sort...”

“Go on.” Waverly gestured with his pipe.

“It would have to be someone pretty highly placed to have gotten the information necessary to grab Illya off guard like that.” He rubbed his chin. “I think we can make that work in our favor, Sir.”

“I would be bait,” Kuryakin’s tone was resigned.

“Big, juicy bait,” assured Solo.

There was a long silence while Waverly considered the situation—his primary concern of the mission’s success weighing against the safety of the innocent, in this case an old friend. “Research has unearthed very little on this, ah, Godfrey Schlamm. All we have is a record of his doctorate in cellular biology from the University of Pennsylvania and Mr. Kuryakin’s report indicating an association with Thrush. Aside from that, the man appears to be a complete mystery.” He gave a hard stare at his top two agents. “I agree with the assessment of a mole; Mr. Kuryakin is too experienced an agent to give away his cover.” He depressed a button on his console. “Please send Mrs. Callum in.”

The door slid open and Cathy walked in; the men stood up politely until she was seated next to Napoleon. 

“There’s been a change in status.” At her nod, Waverly continued, “Mr. Kuryakin’s cover has been compromised. To what extent we are still uncertain. We can still go ahead with the original plan using this information to flush out the perpetrator. However, you must know that because of this, you will almost certainly be at more risk than originally supposed.”

Cathy bit her lip. “I trust you Alex. You needn’t stop on my account.” 

“Very well… Mr. Solo, Mrs. Callum is still your first priority in this Affair. And, Mr. Kuryakin, you will keep a communicator with you—perhaps one of the redesigned models would be appropriate.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Dismissed, Solo and Kuryakin left Waverly’s office and headed down to the lab.

“Redesign?” Napoleon wondered.

“The old-style cigarette packs have been converted into a battery-operated transistor radio with a ‘station’ set up for communications.”

 

**_Later, on a Hudson River waterfront not too far from Greenwich Village_ **

Illya sat on his canvas stool daubing paint with flamboyant strokes. Despite the cool weather, there were a number of passersby who stopped to stare at the strange painting. He seemed to be painting the Hudson, but the only resemblance was the blue and green color. At the moment he was spending a great deal of time painting a very precise black circle on one side.

He sat back, seemingly engrossed in the ‘mood’ of the painting; in reality, he was checking his surroundings and any onlookers.

He’d been at this all afternoon. So far, nothing, but one never knew—at least he was getting noticed as an artist. He squinted up at the sky. Looking at his painting critically, he finally settled on adding a small red dot in the top corner and began to gather up his paints and brushes. He would start another canvas tomorrow...

 

**_Monday, April 29, 1968, evening_ **

The beams shut off and the humming died down. For a long moment, no one moved in the silence.

Godfrey Schlamm finally moved away from his dials and over to the ‘man’ lying supine on the catafalque. Moving closer, he gently touched his creation.

The man’s eyes popped open then slowly blinked. His blue eyes stared blankly at Schlamm, who smiled broadly. 

“Rest now,” he reassured his creation gently, “Everything is going to be fine.” As he stroked the man’s forearm, he cast a knowing smirk to the gallery overhead. “Just fine.”

The newly-formed man closed his eyes sleepily. The doctor gave a short nod to the men waiting just outside the room who quickly transferred the creation onto the gurney. Schlamm looked back up at his audience. 

“Gentlemen,” his tone bordered on arrogant, “and madam,” he added, “this part of my demonstration is over. In a few days, my copy—my _exact_ copy will function as well as the original.” Waving his dismissal to his assistants he looked back up at the observation gallery.

One of the observers was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “We have seen a demonstration, yes, but what guarantee do we have that the process really works as advertised?”

Schlamm, still smiling faintly, explained, “As outlined in my proposal, once my creation has been activated, he will ‘remember’ all the experiences and skills from the original. You will see proof from that phase of the program as the timetable progresses.”

“Humph, yes we will see.”

As the disgruntled man sat down the woman spoke up. “Where are you taking him?”

The doctor smiled. “He is on his way to his cell.” 

“Why? I thought he was programmed to be loyal to Thrush?” 

Nodding condescendingly, the doctor continued, “As I explained in the proposal, he must be kept in a cell. He is an UNCLE agent after all.” Holding up a hand to forestall protests, he added calmly, “When he first ‘awoke’ he was completely unaware of his surroundings—rather like being unconscious. He will have no memory of waking _here_ , however, over the next several hours he will awaken completely. To be of use to us, he must function exactly as the UNCLE agent. Later, when the time is right, his loyalty to Thrush will be activated.” Glancing around his laboratory, he smiled up at his observers as he offered cheerfully, “May I direct you to my dining area; I believe a celebration is in order. I will join you after I change, and answer any further questions you may have at that time.”

 

_**A few days later, Wednesday, May 1, 1968** _

A knock at the door startled Illya out of his reverie. Forcing himself to stay in character, he called out, “The rent’s not due yet—I’ll have it by end of the week.”

“We’re looking for Korzicki—we got a job for him,” a deep voice rumbled.

“Just a minute,” Illya grumbled grabbing a paint-covered rag to wipe his hands before walking over to the door. Yanking it open he glared at the two men just outside, “Now what’s this about a job?”

The smaller of the two (over six feet in height) stared inside the flat while the larger man (four inches taller than his companion and solid as well) moved closer until he stood mere inches away. Looking down at the artist he said mildly, “If you’re Korzicki, our boss may have a job for you.”

Still wiping his hands he looked the two men up and down boldly before asking bluntly, “What sort of work?”

“Work that pays good.”

Shrugging he turned his back on the men, “Very well, come in.” He didn’t wait for an answer.

The two men looked at each other, shrugged and the smaller one followed Korzicki/Kuryakin inside.

Tossing down the dirty rag, Illya carelessly brushed some papers off of the battered chair and sat down in a slouch, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle. Peering up at the man who came inside, he ordered impatiently, “Well, what’s the work—I don’t have all day—and, what kind of pay?”

“Get your coat. The boss will answer any questions.”

The artist shrugged before rising and starting to put away his supplies around the apartment.

“Now.” There was no room for argument.

“I don’t have money to throw away good paint!” he protested as he strode over to the open window and closed it, pausing for a moment to ostensibly shut off his radio, but in reality, thumbing on the silent signal alerting headquarters.

“I said, now.” The threat was very clear.

“I had better be reimbursed,” he muttered while snagging his coat on the way out.

 

“So, you’re looking for an artist?” Korzicki/Kuryakin came straight to the point.

Illya had been ‘escorted’ to a building in a van. The windows were blacked out and the obviously circuitous route kept him from knowing where they were; it could be in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, or even an obscure part of Manhattan for all he knew.

Seated behind an ultra-modern chrome and glass writing table, was a slender man, his back to the door, a small ceiling light spotted on him like a piece of art. His voice was clear, each word precise even though he kept his back facing his ‘guest.’

“I have seen your...work.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not say I liked it—merely that I have seen it.”

There didn’t seem to be any answer to that.

“I want to hire you to paint something very special. You are familiar with the Minimalist Movement?”

“Yes.”

“I have some ideas which incorporate the totality of this Movement in a bold new way through the use of a revolutionary new paint we recently developed. We’re looking for some new, rather unknown artists to test the product in order to obtain a true response, untainted by any preconceived expectations from the better-known artists.”

 

Returned to his flat Illya checked in with headquarters, following up with the signal he’d sent earlier. 

“Bait has been taken.”

 

_**Two days later, Friday afternoon May 3, 1968** _

Illya was in his studio slapping paint enthusiastically over the canvas. This new paint really caught the light; depending on the angle it seemed to shimmer. Stepping back, he studied the painting with a critical eye. _Maybe a bit more blue_... Through the open window he could hear traffic, voices calling, and other neighborhood sounds as he loaded his brush. His radio tuned to WRVR found him swaying slightly to the upbeat tempo Miles Davis was currently playing. Ed Beach, host of “Just Jazz” was announcing the next record when Illya realized with a start that the sun was almost behind the skyline; the shadows would be too deep in another ten minutes and he needed to finish the canvas tonight in order to show his ‘benefactors’ the new paintings showcasing their product. His brush hovered over the canvas. 

Suddenly he was seized with a powerful cramp! Bent over from the sharp pain, he dropped the brush and palette, sinking down to the floor in a heap as he clutched his stomach. For a moment all he could do was gasp for air as he writhed on the floor from the intense pain.

Forcing himself back up, he stumbled to the door still holding his stomach tightly. Fumbling, he tried to get to the bathroom. After a few tries, he sagged back down. Crawling over to his garbage pail he vomited forcefully. Weakened, dizzy and shivering from a cold sweat, he curled into a ball as his stomach spasmed again.

The fog in his mind seemed to clear briefly and in that moment he crawled over to the open window. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up high enough to grab hold of the sill. After a couple of tries, he grabbed the radio and yanked it down.

Exhausted, he almost passed out from that effort, but drawing on his last bit of strength, managed to depress the proper buttons activating the communicator hidden inside. 

“Open Channel D,” whispering hoarsely as yet another wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him.

_“Channel D open,”_

“I-I need to speak...to Napoleon...Solo…” 

_“Solo here.”_

“I... Paint... poisoned...need help...” As the darkness surrounded him, he dimly heard Napoleon’s anxious voice shouting through the communicator.

 

**_Late Saturday afternoon_ **

The all-too familiar sounds of monitoring equipment... Sensing his partner nearby, he blinked open his eyes.

Napoleon looked relieved although his tone belied his concern, “About time you woke up.”

“How—”

Before he could finish the question, Napoleon spooned some very welcome ice into his dry mouth. “You’ve been out nearly a day.” Still seeing a question in his partner’s eyes, he continued, “Good thing we were able to triangulate your position. Another hour and…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“This is becoming ridiculous!” Illya was completely disgusted with the situation. “Tell me you at least got some decent leads on this!”

“I wish we did.”

Illya struggled to sit up. Seeing this, Napoleon moved closer and turned the crank to raise the bed. Settling back against the pillows he muttered darkly, “I suppose we can take this as a definite confirmation of a mole.”

The CEA pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Mr. Waverly had us doing this as a personal favor, so, let’s break it down; who would have known?”

“Lisa made the arrangements for my art lesson and the flat and Letitia set up your cover… But they’ve been with the organization for years. Who else...?”

“Mrs. Callum knew—but she didn’t have the details. As to the attack in the parking garage...she was in danger herself at that point. Other than Mr. Waverly and ourselves...?” Napoleon shook his head slowly, “But it’s obvious that the mole has higher access than originally supposed. Mr. Waverly will have to be informed—”

“—and Mrs. Callum will have to stay at a safe house known only to the three of us.”

 

**_Sunday, late evening in the Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania Safe House_ **

“You’re quite sure you’re alright?” Cathy called from the bedroom. 

“I’m fine.” Illya was leafing through the photograph album. Given an antidote in time had rendered the poison uncomfortable rather than deadly. Since there was no point in continuing his cover, Illya had no reason to keep the beard, so he’d shaved. To annoy Napoleon, though, he kept the overlong hair, which was currently in a tumble. Finger-combing his hair aside he studied the black and white wedding picture catching his breath; he could have stood in for the groom. 

He continued leafing through the album, staring at the small photographs. There weren’t a lot, but since this was during the War, it was hardly surprising. The ones of Simon in uniform brought his own Soviet Navy pictures sharply to mind.

“Here’s the album I was looking for. I figured I’d probably be here a while so I brought my favorites. “Cathy said fondly, “Now, these were taken before we were married—mostly from his trips abroad. His Uncle was in diplomat service.”

Looking through the proffered album, Illya strove to contain his astonishment. Every snapshot of this man looked enough like him to be…him!

His eye riveted on one of Simon squinting at the camera while sitting on a large rock by the sea, feet dangling. He was barefoot, pant cuffs rolled up above his ankles and wearing a striped sweater. _He knew that sweater._

“Cathy, where was this taken?”

Peering down she smiled. I believe it was taken somewhere near Kiev, Vas-ill something, from when he was in the Soviet Union.”

“Vasilkiv. Do you by any chance know when?”

“He was traveling with a group of diplomats sometime in August 1932 until late February,” She paused, “Curious you would ask about this one though.”

“Why is that?”

“That sweater is one of the few things he managed to keep intact from that time. It was Simon’s favorite. I’d put it away to give to our son...” She sighed briefly before saying briskly, “When we only had the two girls, I promised myself I would give it to my first grandson. Why?”

Still staring at the picture Illya said mechanically, “The sweater is blue with black and grey stripes and a thin stripe of dark green.”

“Why, however did you know?”

“My mother often described it as one of my father’s favorites...” He swallowed before adding dryly, “Although her story was that my father died before I was born.”

There was a long silence. Illya was focused intently on the floor as though he had never seen it before. A gentle hand caressed him on the cheek and he looked up to see Cathy smiling at him, tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Illya, I—” she stopped, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Holding his emotions in check Illya said quietly, “I am sorry to have distressed you...”

“No, no, no, you haven’t distressed me at all; you’ve made me quite happy. I-I’d like very much to have you as a son...we all would.” 

Illya took Cathy’s hands in his and gave her a kiss on the cheek, “I’d like that, too.”

 

_**Monday morning, May 6, 1968** _

Napoleon was following a hunch—something Cathy had mentioned about Chester Martin…

“Files, please.”

“Files,” the sultry voice purred, “What can I do for you today, Napoleon?”

Grinning, Napoleon answered, “Ah, Duchess, if you only knew.” Duchess was a highly efficient Records secretary with a sweet and generous nature—and a Section III husband who towered over Napoleon like a giant. Clearing his throat, tone abruptly serious, “I need everything you can find on a Chester Martin and his wife Mildred. They’re actively involved in charities, art functions, things like that.”

“Sure thing, Sweetie.”

In a surprisingly short time, Duchess sent a packet up to his office. Inside were newspaper articles containing pictures of the couple—one from a charity auction and one from a fundraiser dinner for which Mildred had been one of the hostesses. They appeared to be a fairly ordinary-looking pair from upper Manhattan. Reaching for the brief biography, he began to read.

_Odd that_ … Reading on he suddenly realized a possible connection.

Chester had gone to school in Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania and one of his classmates was a Hulda Schlamm. Further digging revealed she was a cousin to Godfrey Schlamm. It _had_ to be the connection! Their moneyed circles could certainly provide plenty of opportunities for potential blackmail…

Then there were those unusual characteristics Section VIII discovered while analyzing the ‘special’ paint recovered from Illya’s cover flat. Wet, its rather drastic properties made it fortunate Illya had been able to get help when he did—untreated it would have been fatal. Once dry though, the paint became a highly receptive transmitter. Viable for thirty days, a lot of sensitive information could certainly be obtained even in that short time frame.

Napoleon sighed. Typical Thrush tactics; the paint was difficult to manufacture and the subsequent window of opportunity very limited. He shook his head in amazement at the supra-powered organization with its wildly grandiose schemes.

“This has got to be one of the more bizarre ideas they’ve concocted.” Solo had taken the two hour drive to check on things personally and touch base with his partner, who was now guarding Mrs. Callum. 

“Perish the thought.” 

“Okay wise guy… Look, the information on the Martins—who by the way are probably innocents in this—and the results from that paint are indicative of something huge. Granted, it’s a high-rolling blackmail scheme of immense proportion, but there’s an undercurrent of something else… something even bigger.”

“Go on…”

Napoleon hesitated, “I can’t quite put my finger on it but I think it’s somehow connected with your abduction from the flat.”

Staring at the copious notes, Illya suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine. “Napoleon…?”

Napoleon looked up in surprise at the odd tone.

“What comes to mind when you put cellular biology together with the wounds I received?”

“Nothing jumps out. What are you on to?”

“What if they were sample sites?”

“Sample sites...?”

“Something I read recently in one of my scientific journals; speculation about retrieving samples from plants, animals, or even humans with the idea of cloning them in the future. I took it to be fanciful conjecture at the time…” He paused before adding thoughtfully, “It does bring to mind the Nazi dreams of a ‘Master Race’ and their evil machinations—” Illya broke off abruptly.

Napoleon turned pale as he suddenly realized what it was his partner was suggesting!

 

_**Three days later, May 9, 1968** _

Research produced a probable location for the satrap laboratory. While Napoleon followed up on the cousin Hulda Schlamm, Illya would lead an intelligence-gathering recon with a team of agents from the Pittsburgh office who were familiar with the area. 

 

Their lead took them to an innocent-looking farmhouse tucked in the steep hillside overlooking the Monongahela River in the tiny town of Roscoe. The dirt driveway near the top of the hill was marked by a tiny building—from its size probably a place for children to wait for the school bus during inclement weather. If this really was a satrap, it was doubtful children were living there; nevertheless, it made an excellent place to keep a lookout. The rest of the team spread out among the stand of Blue Spruces along the treacherously steep edge of the property.

Kuryakin’s worst fears were realized. Everything—especially this lab would have to be destroyed immediately! The potential ramifications were horrific! He needed to notify headquarters of his findings. Hurriedly pulling out his communicator he activated it. Nothing except a squeal—a jamming device! Using the camera secreted inside his medallion he rapidly took picture after picture of the doctor’s notes. He was almost finished when a small sound to his left caused him to freeze. Suddenly the doorknob rattled and from the muttering, it sounded like several people were just outside.

No place to hide! Shoving the folder back into place, he dove under the desk just as a key was inserted into the lock. The fluorescent lights overhead snapped on, bathing the lab in a harsh glare. Hardly daring to breathe, Illya remained motionless as the people entered.

“So this is where you conducted the first experiments?” The voice belonged to an older man and from the way he was wheezing, either severely overweight or prone to emphysema.

“Yes, it is. I thought you might appreciate seeing where it all began,” replied another voice, the words somewhat clipped and with a faint German accent.

_He’d heard that voice before—Schlamm!_

Scuffling. At least two other people...

A woman spoke, her voice a rich contralto with a hint of teasing in her tone, “I see you have a copy of _Frankenstein_. Was this your inspiration?”

Footsteps as Schlamm walked over to the woman. “I read this book as a boy. The idea of harvesting corpses did not appeal, but the idea of improving mankind into something more, well...” He chuckled modestly as he added, “You have all seen how successful that was.”

Another man spoke; confident—someone used to being in charge. “The final test has yet to be completed.” There was a pause. “If you manage to produce the promised results, I can assure you that Central will reward you most generously.”

“You shall see your results and more. There will be no disappointment.”

The woman was moving around the room, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She stopped before walking around the desk and pulled out the heavy chair. Sitting down sideways to the desk, she crossed her legs. Illya froze. She was mere inches away.

“What have we here?” Schlamm was triumphant as the woman and the chair were abruptly pulled away from the desk. Snapping his fingers sharply, he ordered, “Guards!”

Unable to escape, Kuryakin was resigned as the two guards dragged him out from underneath the desk. Once on his feet, the guards roughly cuffed his hands behind his back as he was searched. His Special, knife, gas pellet and small cache of explosives were confiscated with equal efficiency.

Schlamm grabbed Kuryakin by the hair, smirking as he angled his prisoner’s head looking first at one side and then the other. Looking back at the others he demanded, “Can you tell the difference?”

The woman stood up and moved closer. Eyeing Kuryakin boldly from head to toe, she finally sniffed, “How can we be sure, Godfry?”

Schlamm inclined his head briefly in salute to the woman. “How indeed, my dear?” He smirked before snapping out orders to the guards, “Bring him. We will go down to the holding area.” With that he turned sharply on his heel, the guards shoving Kuryakin in front of them as they followed. He stopped abruptly causing the others to scramble. “Wait!”

Narrowing his eyes at his prisoner he speculated, “Kuryakin will not be alone—I want the entire area searched, inside and out! Now!” Offering his arm to the woman he smiled. “Shall we continue…?”

The group walked down the surprisingly wide hallway as they descended deeper until they reached a bright red steel door. The doctor flattened his palm against a plate, activating some kind of security device until the door slid open. Standing behind a thick glass wall was a man—blond, blue-eyed—an exact twin to Illya!

Kuryakin froze. Recovering quickly, he gave the ‘twin’ a chilling stare, raking his eyes over the imposter from head to toe. The ‘twin’ did nothing—obviously the glass was one-way.

“You no doubt wish a formal introduction,” gloated Schlamm, “Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, meet...Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”


	4. ACT III: A Traitor in the Mix?

“I’m afraid this ploy has been used before without success...it will fail again.” Kuryakin was dismissive.

“Ah, but this time it cannot fail. Your plans to ‘destroy’ the satrap will be successful and ‘Kuryakin’ will return to UNCLE headquarters. There will be no questions.”

“If you really think that your...copy…will fool Mr. Solo, you are even more delusional than the usual Thrush fare.” 

Schlamm gazed at Kuryakin somewhat owlishly through his thick glasses. Removing them for a moment to clean the lenses, he insisted, “Quite the contrary. That is, if Mr. Solo doesn’t have some sort of, shall we say, accident? After all, explosives are dangerous things.” Replacing his glasses and ignoring the glare directed at him for the implied threat he continued, “But, the question I believe is, how he can succeed?” The light gleaming in his eye was fevered by his fanatical dreams. “My process is revolutionary in the field of science and medicine. From a small, uncontaminated tissue sample I can create my serum, inject it into a sterilized receptacle—in this case a human-shaped container of human tissue—bombard the form which has been primed with a cellular matrix powder with gamma and theta rays, until I get my duplicate.

“Naturally, that is a highly oversimplified description.

“ _But know this_ —my copy is _exact_ from fingerprints down to the neural impulses of his brain. _All_ of your memories have been stored within my copy; _all_ of your thoughts and even your very emotions have been duplicated. He is _you_!” 

“No plan is completely foolproof—the more complicated the plan, the greater the opportunity for things to go awry,” Illya sneered.

“Perhaps,” Schlamm raised his finger to forestall any interruptions, “however, you are overlooking the fact that my copy is _not_ someone who has been surgically altered and ‘trained’ to know their part. _This_ is the genuine article—another ‘Illya Kuryakin,’ and because this ‘Kuryakin’ has all your thoughts, your memories, your skills— _he cannot fail_!”

“If the duplicate is everything you claim, he will not be able to comply with your nefarious scheme any more than could I.”

“I realize no such thing!” Schlamm was beginning to get angry. Pursing his lips together tightly, he forced himself to be calm. After a moment he chuckled softly. “I should have remembered how intelligent you are. You are correct in your assumptions...as far as they go. As it happens there is one small difference between you and my duplicate. Naturally, he will appear to agree with UNCLE’s philosophies, in the same manner as you—that is who he is… regardless of how many probes or analyses are used to test him. 

“However, his very core is pledged to Thrush!”

A chill crept over Kuryakin as he realized that Schlamm’s plan could really succeed. As outrageous as it sounded, he’d seen the evidence— an _exact_ duplicate—except for the beard… _A shave would eliminate that small discrepancy._

In other instances, there had been voiceprints, fingerprints, but _this_ time… There _had_ to be a weakness, a flaw. His eyes narrowed as another piece fell into place.

“You have a trigger,” he said flatly.

Schlamm was pleased. “Correct, Mr. Kuryakin, there is a trigger.”

“A trigger can be tripped by mistake, one of the problems with subliminal conditioning.”

Schlamm pounced. “Ah, but you see, this is not the usual trigger. As my added safeguard, the subject must first be given a whiff of Schlamminate-RD, a unique combination of rare gasses which I developed in the course of my research. Then, and _only_ then will the trigger word combination work.”

“I would guess to keep your position with Thrush it can only be initiated by you.”

The doctor chuckled even as he waved weakly at the attending guards. “Thank you for this exchange, Mr. Kuryakin. It has been most gratifying.” Illya was grasped by his elbows and marched swiftly down the hall where he was shoved into a waiting cell. He realized instantly that it was identical to the one his ‘twin’ inhabited. Once the door was locked, Schlamm smiled thinly at his prisoner. “I do hope that you will not antagonize my people or at least _try_ to restrain your impulses.” He shook his head faintly. “There really is no escape from here.”

 

“An intriguing concept, Herr Schlamm,” the grey-haired man speaking had a pronounced German accent and sat facing the monitors. He’d already poured himself a drink from one of the decanters while waiting for the doctor’s return. Even in his sixties, he exuded danger, making Schlamm glad the former Nazi was on his side. The tall, almost emaciated German had been unable to be present for the ‘birthing’ process and the doctor was eager to show off his creation.

“I trust you had a pleasant flight?” 

The German’s eyes flicked over to Schlamm briefly. “It was adequate.” Drawing deeply on his cigarette, he finally allowed the smoke to trickle slowly out of his lips. Suddenly he leaned forward in his chair and adjusted his wire-framed glasses. Eyes glued to the screen, he demanded impatiently, “This man—who is he?”

The doctor glanced at the monitor before answering, “He is the UNCLE agent, Illya Kuryakin. We used his genetic material for the experiment.”

“How did you decide upon him as your… donor?”

“He is a top agent within UNCLE. We needed someone who could give us access on the highest levels. He is also in good health and very skilled. A perfect test subject.”

“I see… What do you know of his background?” 

“I, er, nothing, Herr—”

A sharp gesture cut off further speech. The man in the chair steepled his hands together, tapping the fingertips lightly as he contemplated the situation. Without moving his eyes from the monitor, he said coldly, “I knew his father. Carter was the name—Flight Lieutenant. Simon Carter. He was a particular bone in my throat.” Swiveling the chair around to face Dr. Schlamm he asserted coldly, “This one is mine. He will pay for what his father did.”

Sketching a small bow, the doctor answered in an appeasing tone, “Yes, yes, of course Herr Mohn, immediately after the experiment has run its course.” 

 

**_Later that night_ **

Illya was dozing when a faint sound woke him. Not sure what disturbed him he lay still, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. A blindingly powerful light flared in his eyes, dazzling him. Squinting, Illya raised an arm over his eyes to shield them.

“Guards!” the harsh accented German voice snapped out the word.

The gate of the cell swung open and two guards stepped inside smartly. In one swift movement, they hauled Illya up from the thin cot. The man looked closely at his prize—a shorter than average, slightly built blond, in rough pants and shirt. What Illya saw, behind the halo of the bright light, was a thin man, late sixties or early seventies, with coarse skin and glittering eyes in a long, narrow face. He stood relaxed, feet slightly apart with a sharp air of authority. A memory tickled in the back of his mind… something from long ago. Illya looked the man directly in the eye, his expression carefully blank.

“Yes, you do resemble your father a great deal. This will make my long-delayed gratification in this matter all the better.” The German’s gloating took on a rather conversational tone, “I am Horst Mohn, retired from the Luftwaffe. I am most appreciative to finally have the opportunity to…finish…what was begun so many years ago in Colditz.”

Illya couldn’t help his startled reaction at hearing the name Colditz. The memory surfaced unbidden of a list of war criminals with accompanying photographs who were never brought to trial. That was where—

The old man continued, “I have a slight curiosity about the difference in names… a bastard perhaps? No matter, it is a Russian name…” His eyes narrowed into hard ice. “I was removed from active duty because a _Russian_ bayonet invalided me,” he spat, “It appears I will not only have the pleasure of destroying the son of my primary antagonist during that time—but that he is Russian—!” He broke off allowing himself a short bark of laughter.

His expression when he stepped back was alarming… his orders even more so.

“Strip him!”

 

**_The next day, May 11, 1968 at the Safe House_ **

“You have to come with me for your own safety, Mrs. Callum,” Kuryakin ordered tightly.

Cathy shot a startled look at the agitated agent. “But...I thought you needed me to stay here.”

“Change of plans.” Kuryakin was abrupt, eyes carefully scanning their surroundings.

Picking up her coat she walked over to the table for her purse. She froze before hurrying into the other room.

Kuryakin raised his voice slightly, “Please—we must hurry.”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Cathy’s voice drifted out from the bedroom. She reentered the room carrying a large tote slung over her shoulder. Seeing his sharp look she explained quickly, “This holds more; I don’t know how long we’ll be and—”

“Never mind,” Kuryakin interrupted impatiently, “We must leave _now_.” It was all he could do to keep from pulling her along forcefully.

Once in the sedan, she barely had time to get situated before the big car slammed in gear and sped into traffic. Honking his horn at a timid driver, Kuryakin skirted yet another vehicle, zipping out of the city at a frightening speed.

The car had seat belts and Cathy quickly fastened hers as the car switched lanes with alarming frequency. When they finally settled into a steady speed, she drew a long breath and asked, “Where are we going?”

Kuryakin was intent on his driving, eyes flicking to the mirrors. “That location was compromised. I’m taking you to another safe house. We’ll meet up with Napoleon and Miss Dancer there.”

“How far?”

“A few hours.”

She relaxed slightly and settled back. “By the way, when did we go back to being so formal? I thought we were becoming friends?”

“I have no wish to offend. It’s usually best to maintain some formality under present circumstances.”

“Oh…” She reached deep into her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She started to offer one to Illya when she stopped, remembering he didn’t smoke, before lighting her own. She took a puff and looked sideways at Illya, “You really do look like Simon—especially in profile.” Turning to stare back out at the mountainous scenery she added, “I’d always admired his nose.”

“You’re very kind.”

Cathy frowned slightly. Taking a long drag, she slowly exhaled while she thought over the brief exchange. Something wasn’t quite right... almost as if they’d never talked about Simon at all.

“Have you ever considered adding some color to your wardrobe?” She pretended to think a moment, contemplating. “Perhaps a sweater—something in a nice stripe? I have some things of my husband’s that look as though they would fit you.”

“No… thank you. I’m satisfied with my current wardrobe. I’m sure there are suitable places you could donate the clothing.”

_This can’t be Illya! Not when he was so eager to learn about—_

Forcing herself to remain calm, Cathy turned back to look out the window. Not wanting to raise suspicion, she lay back. “I think I’ll rest a bit. Traveling always makes me sleepy.” Sitting quietly with her eyes closed, she tried to think of what she could do. If only she were alone she could contact Alex or Napoleon…

An idea finally came to mind and she leaned forward to cough. Coughing again, she cranked open the window. After a few turns she leaned back facing the window and began to breathe heavily.

“Are you all right?” Kuryakin threw a quick glance at his passenger.

“I-I think I may have gotten hold of some bad fish or something from last night,” she said haltingly, and raising her wrist to her forehead briefly before grasping her stomach added, “I’m afraid I feel… quite nauseous.” She swallowed hard.

“We are on a tight schedule…”

“I… I think if we could stop someplace so that I could use the WC... I’m sorry, I just feel so...” her voice trailed off and she gave a delicate moan.

 

“Are you sure?” Napoleon sounded doubtful, worried, and soothing all at the same time. The call coming through on the communicator he had given her back in the parking garage had been a complete shock.

“Do you have a better explanation?” she demanded tartly. Abruptly breathless again with fear she added, “Look, we’re at a small lorry stop. We’re heading west...on the turnpike is it? There was a sign about Altoona and the highway markers say 76 and 70. Please… hurry!”

A polite but insistent knocking on the bathroom door almost caused Cathy to drop the pen-communicator in the sink.

“Are you alright?”

“I-I’ll be out in a moment,” Cathy called out weakly.

“We have to go…”

“I-I need to rinse my mouth—” Then in a desperate whisper into the communicator, “I have to go. Goodbye.” She dismantled the pen and hastily cupped her hands together, catching the water she’d turned on before making the call and rinsing out her mouth, well aware that lies could compromise her. A quick glance in the mirror showed her to be pale and slightly disheveled—excellent.

She unlocked the door and almost jumped back, startled at just how close Illya was. Taking her by the arm, the not-quite-Illya guided her to the car. Once inside, they shot out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.

Illya drove at the posted speed, eyes moving constantly checking the mirrors and surrounding traffic. Glancing at his pale passenger, he gestured to the small box on the floor holding a paper bag and two cardboard cups. “Coffee. I wasn’t sure how you take it so I brought sugar and powdered cream.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed over a small cellophane bag. “Here are some lemon drops. The waitress said they should help with your nausea.”

“Thank you,” Cathy’s voice was faint—tight with fear, but she hoped he would attribute the weak tones to illness.

 

“What I don’t understand is why.” Napoleon’s anger was building and he had to work at keeping it under control. His mood was already foul from the time wasted getting a lead on the elusive cousin Hulda. After a number of dead ends, he finally found her… in the Belle Vernon _Cemetery_! Her family adamantly denied any ties to Godfry Schlamm until bribery was used. The sister then ‘remembered’ a house somewhere in Roscoe. 

Now this!

“Illya _can’t_ be the traitor—he’s one of the most fiercely loyal people I know!” Napoleon was speaking with Waverly over a secure channel as he waited for his contact near the college in California. His anger fought with his belief/hope that this had to be a huge mistake.

When Waverly responded, his tone was without compromise, “The only people who knew of the safe house in Mechanicsburg were you, Mr. Kuryakin and I. He must be stopped… and quickly!”

Solo swallowed hard. Speaking quickly, he swore, “I’ll bring them back, Sir.”

“I need not remind you that Mrs. Callum is your first priority. Mr. Kuryakin is expendable. Do I make myself clear?”

Napoleon closed his eyes briefly in pain. “Yes, Sir.”

Another pause. “Mr. Solo, I know this is difficult. Can you complete your assignment?”

A deep breath as images of Illya’s friendship raced through his mind. But… if he really was the mole, the Command came first. _‘Tis better ‘twere done quickly_ — “Yes, Sir. Solo out.” 

He twisted the communicator again. “Open Channel K. What’s your E.T.A.?”

“Fifteen minutes, Sir.”

Solo signed off and settled back to wait. Part of him was furious with his partner—how dare he! Another part—the bigger part screamed, _**No!** This is **Illya**. There has to be another explanation—drugs or… something!_

 

“The chopper spotted the car, Sir—he took a bypass route and is on 88.” Static was heavy on this channel but they couldn’t take the chance of using one of the usual ones.

“Keep your distance; we don’t want to spook him. He’s probably headed for that Roscoe location.”

Jonathon Steel, top agent out of Pittsburgh and long-time resident of the area, expertly negotiated the tricky, wrongly-banked bend through Coal Center. “We just had the one call saying the lead fizzled out; that and the bad weather from the storm.” 

Napoleon nodded. The original assessment of a dead-end lead and weather conditions had seemed plausible, but now… What really happened on that foray? Despite overwhelming evidence, he was having a very hard time believing that the man he’d been partnered with all this time could really be the enemy. He just hoped events would play out so he could get some badly needed answers.

 

Illya drew in a ragged breath. The pain was excruciating. Mohn’s sojourn within the Third Reich and at Colditz evidently served him well when dispensing torture. The situation, though desperate, was not impossible. _I refuse to die at this excrement’s hand!_

Casting around the cell he spotted his clothing thrown carelessly in the corner. Forcing screaming muscles into submission, he stumbled over and one-handedly dragged on the dirty trousers. Shrugging awkwardly into the thin shirt, he paused a moment to think…

They’d removed his usual arsenal of devices but he still had one small item left. Panting from the agony of cracked ribs, he painfully raised a swollen hand. Carefully touching the stubble on his tender jaw, _thankfully not broken_ , before wiping his fingers and fishing for the small wire. 

The lock opened and he crouched, waiting, listening for any sign that his actions were noticed. Taking a cautious breath as he braced himself, he slipped out of the now-open cell. He had to warn—

_Chyort! Footsteps!_ Frantically, he searched for a hiding place, but the low-ceilinged hall was empty with cells at one end and a solid steel door at the other. Except … at this angle he could see a small door-sized section of wall that appeared slightly different from the rest. He limped over. It appeared to be some kind of patched section. He fumbled, scrambling to open it when he heard voices just on the other side of the steel door. 

Time was running out! He could hear the key being inserted in the lock when _there!_ The section opened on a kind of swivel-hinge. Squeezing through the tiny opening he pulled it closed just as the lock reluctantly turned on the heavy door. He froze, hardly daring to breathe. Footsteps ran past his hideaway and stopped. 

“He’s gone!”

He could hear the men rush into the cell and fling over the bed, the clang of the metal hitting the stone floor very clear in the dark niche. More muttering and the sound of heavy boots running past.

 

Brakes screeched, gravel flying! Doors were flung open even before the car had shuddered to a complete stop, pouring out agents. They were in a dense wood overlooking the horseshoe bend of the Monongahela.

“Over there!” Napoleon gestured with his left arm. The agents moved in a wide arc as they neared the silent vehicle. 

Solo was the first to reach it. Empty! But the hood was hot… “Spread out—they can’t have gone far!” 

Steel glanced over at Solo before ordering, “Report to me on Channel Y.” Adjusting his communicator to a short-range channel, he attached a tiny ear-bud to a slender wire at the top of the pen.

Solo nodded his approval at the local agent.

As the others began their grid-search, Solo and Steel went over the car.

_Beep._

“Steel.”

Solo paused in his checking as the Pittsburgh agent nodded.

“I’ll be right there, Steel out.” He glanced over at the CEA. “Murphy found a piece of wool caught on one of the brambles.”

“Go ahead. Let me know if there’s anything else.”

Steel nodded and plunged down into the thicket. 

Solo finally straightened up from his examination of the car. He’d gleaned all he could—anything else would need special equipment and the lab boys. Carefully scrutinizing the immediate area, he found himself moving away. The ground was really too hard to show footprints but—

His senses told him he was not alone. His team would have signaled if they’d found Mrs. Callum—it stood to reason that this either had to be Thrush or… Illya. _And maybe they were one in the same…_

He watched from behind a conveniently placed tree as the newcomer silently checked over the car, gun held ready. He stepped out revealing himself.

“Napoleon, what are you doing?” His relief at seeing his partner faded as he stared at the Special aimed with deadly accuracy. “This is me, Illya.”

“Is it?”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.”

_If this was acting, Illya should be in Hollywood._

“Okay…would you mind telling me where you have Mrs. Callum? And why did you take her away from the safe house anyway?”

Not understanding his partner’s suppressed animosity, Illya stood quietly, hands held loosely at his side. He reported formally, eyes forward, “I removed her on Waverly’s orders. It was my understanding that you and April would be joining us at the safe house in Greensburg.” 

Napoleon looked hard at his partner. “Why the detour?”

“I was being followed.”

Although difficult, he’d always been able to read his partner accurately—one of the reasons for their legendary partnership. What he was reading now was… truth. There _had_ to be another explanation. Lowering his weapon, he let out a long breath. “This may sound clichéd, but we need to talk.”

For a long moment Illya stared before a twitch of his lips signaled his agreement. 

Illya started to lean against the car when a small sound in the underbrush put both agents back on high alert. They watched as a figure slipped out of the trees…

What the— Twins…? 

Granted, one was bruised and probably had cracked ribs from the way he was standing. But Napoleon had seen Illya in this state far too often. No—they were identical, from the overlong, disheveled blond hair and compact build, to the large hands! Completely astounded, Solo brought his weapon up instinctively. _One_ of these Illyas was his friend… and the other? In a surprisingly steady voice, he observed softly, “Two Illya Kuryakins... what will they think of next?”

The first Illya glared at the newcomer. “This _imposter_ —”

The other glared back just as lethally and snarled, “ _This_ imposter is a Thrush duplicate! I was captured and have only just escaped!”

“ _I_ was captured and escaped! I hardly think a-a ‘copycat’ like yourself should—”

“— _you_ have no room to talk!”

Feeling he needed to gain control of the situation, Solo raised his voice, using his CEA tone, “I want you _both_ to be quiet! Now!”

The Illyas stopped and looked at him.

Napoleon tried to ease the tension from his neck while he settled his suit coat more properly upon his shoulders. “That’s better.”

Two pairs of blue eyes rolled identically.

Looking from one to the other he pursed his lips while contemplating the situation. “Do I really _want_ to know what happened?”

The Illya on the left responded instantly, “One of us is lying.”

The one on the right nodded, “The situation must be resolved, and quickly.”

“Napoleon, there cannot be two of us!”

_Two Illya Kuryakins meant their mole had to be one of the ‘twin’ Illyas… but which—_

“The fake must be exposed. Quickly and—” stated one Illya flatly. 

The other broke in, “—if there’s any doubt whatsoever, both of us—”

“—will have to be sanctioned.”

Needing to argue the point, Napoleon sniped, “Really? What would you suggest?” Another glance at twin volatile expressions made him add hastily, “Never mind! We can resolve this back at headquarters,” mentally crossing his fingers that a viable solution could be found which did _not_ involve termination, “We need to find Mrs. Callum and get out of here.”

A chilling thought suddenly occurred. “Hand over your weapons.”

Narrowing his eyes at his ‘mirror image’ the first Illya handed over his Special, butt-end first, a couple of gas grenades, coil of rope, pair of handcuffs, spare gun from his ankle holster, two knives, money-clip bomb, and belt. Holding up one finger, he braced himself against a tree and emptied the contents from the heel of each shoe. Finally he carefully removed two buttons, two pins, and, his tie clip.

The other Illya shrugged sheepishly and handed over a couple of sharpened stones.

As Napoleon stowed the arsenal away, the Illya on the left offered a suggestion.

“You should dart us.” 

Sadly impossible; he was out of sleep darts. He shook his head.

“Handcuffs then,” the other offered.

The CEA nodded shortly and quickly handcuffed each ‘twin’ tightly, hands behind the back, before the wrong Illya would have a chance to— Giving himself a mental shake, Napoleon squelched all thought of just how much damage a _wrong_ Illya could do.

His bemusement fled as a shot suddenly rang out, hitting the previously uninjured Illya, dropping him instantly! Whirling around to return fire, Solo couldn’t get a clear shot before the other Illya was bludgeoned and dragged off.

Napoleon stared helplessly at the rapidly departing vehicle before rushing over to— _damn_ —whoever he was, he was still Illya!

Just as he reached him another batch of enemy agents came out of the woods and surrounded them. Unable to do much in the way of escaping—these Thrush were too well trained— all he could do was buy some time and trust to his luck. Squatting down he began to check on his partner.

“How bad?” he asked starting to pull away the material to see.

“Just a nick…” Illya dismissed the minor wound. Seeing his partner’s skeptical look he added, “I gouged my arm against that tree trunk trying to avoid being hit.” Glaring he added, “I’m _fine_.”

Silently they watched as Thrush henchmen opened the hoods on the UNCLE cars and ripped out some wires. A moment later a closed van pulled up. Gesturing with his rifle, the Thrush leader motioned to the van. “Get in!” 

Napoleon got up slowly, hands raised. Two of the Thrush guards roughly pulled his hands behind his back, fastening them efficiently with handcuffs. Solo watched as two of the men hauled up Kuryakin. Shoving both men inside, the Thrush agents followed settling themselves on the bench seats along the sides as the rear doors were slammed shut and locked.

The sharp acceleration threw Solo down on his side against Kuryakin. After a small struggle, he managed to sit upright; leaning forward kept some of the pressure off his handcuffed hands.

“Still with me?” whispered Napoleon.

Illya squinted open his eyes. A sudden pothole elicited a grunt of pain. “Perhaps handcuffing me wasn’t one of my better ideas.” 

A sigh. “Probably not.”


	5. ACT IV: Down in a Coal Mine

Jon Steel watched in frustration as the van sped away. Bringing up his binoculars, he noted the plate numbers before calling back the others. The open hood of their car revealed old-fashioned vandalism. Notifying the Pittsburgh office, he leaned against the car in disgust.

It was just under an hour when two large sedans with tinted windows pulled up. As the doors opened, Steel and his men stood ready. An old man wearing tweeds stepped out of the first car flanked by two heavily armed men. “Mr. Steel, have your men stand down!” The Pittsburgh agent stepped into the clearing as Waverly took a sharp look around. “Your report. And… where is Mr. Solo?”

Steel sighed inwardly dreading this debriefing. “Mr. Solo was taken by Thrush, Sir, along with Mr. Kuryakin. I gave headquarters the plate number forty minutes ago. Stolen—local authorities found it abandoned off the interstate, no one inside. Pittsburgh is checking further.” He took a breath while running a nervous hand through short chestnut curls. “There’s no sign of Mrs. Callum, Sir; she wasn’t taken with the others. We’ve searched, but it’s a large area.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Waverly, there’s more…”

“Go on…”

“Sir, there were two Illya Kuryakins.” 

At Waverly’s forbidding stare Steel added almost defensively, “That’s what it looked like, Sir.” Taking a breath, he continued hurriedly, “Mr. Solo had just signaled the team to return. I was maybe thirty yards from the vehicles when I saw someone join him—Kuryakin. I was about to move in when I realized someone was already with him. Kuryakin was already there!” He grimaced, “I was caught off guard, Sir. I never expected to see _two_ Kuryakins…” Taking another breath, “One of the Kuryakins got shot—it appeared minor. Thrush took the one they didn’t shoot away in a car. Another group took Solo and the injured one away in a van. They all appeared to be prisoners, Sir.” 

Steel tried not to flinch as the hard, pale blue eyes pinned him after his report. Then, in a surprising move, Waverly cupped his hands over his mouth and suddenly emitted a loud trill—a bird call! He repeated it several times, and then stopped, listening.

Several moments passed before an answering trill came from somewhere to the south.

They could hear rustling from the underbrush, the crackling of branches as something moved closer. Waverly motioned everyone to wait. Suddenly Mrs. Callum burst into the clearing—disheveled, burrs and dead leaves clinging to her wool sweater—but alive and unharmed! Seeing her mentor, she stumbled over to his waiting arms.

“There, there.” Patting her hands. “Are you all right?”

Pulling herself together with an effort, she sniffed, “I’m fine Alex. But, wait! There’s something wrong with Illya! He-he’s not quite… himself!”

“Yes, yes, I just learned of this myself.” Leading her over to sit down in the car, an agent quickly opened the door while another poured a cup of hot coffee from a thermos. Waverly pressed the coffee into her shaking hands. “Now then, what can you tell me?”

 

The ride didn’t last long. Solo guessed maybe fifteen minutes before lurching to a stop, causing the UNCLE agents to lose their precarious balance. Before they could react, the rear doors were thrust open and Thrush agents, armed with rifles, gestured them to come out. The men inside jerked Solo and Kuryakin to their feet and forced them to jump down. They were parked next to a large, cab-over-engine panel truck squeezed on the narrow shoulder between the pavement and a steep hill. An equally steep drop-off was on the other side of the road. 

The transfer had Solo and Kuryakin manacled by the ankles to a chain inside. Immediately the diesel engine rumbled to life and the truck jolted into gear.

This ride was longer making the twisting roller coaster ride brutal in the back. After an engine-groaning drive up yet another steep hill, the truck finally slowed to a stop and the doors were opened. 

It was dark. Hands still tightly handcuffed, the UNCLE agents stumbled awkwardly on the uneven ground as they picked their way down the steep hill.

They finally arrived at the large bungalow-style house. Like many homes built in this part of the country the structure took advantage of the steep grade. The back porch where they entered was only a step up, but three steps at the far end were just visible. Lights in the front of the house revealed what was probably a front porch and lower level walk-out. The welcoming porch light and ordinary-looking screen door completed the picture; the only jarring notes were the armed guards and patrolling dogs. Solo blinked his eyes against the bright overhead lights in the large country kitchen. Seated at the yellow Formica table, two men in Thrush jumpsuits were eating a savory stew. His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. _Illya must be starving._ Casting a glance at his injured partner, Solo was unsurprised to see Illya coolly assessing their surroundings flanked by two of the guards.

Schlamm, dressed formally and holding a glass of wine entered the kitchen. “Take them down to the cell. After they are… settled, you may as well feed them.” His glance coolly took in Illya’s condition. “Send for Nurse Hansen—I still have need of Kuryakin.”

Through the archway was a spacious, tastefully-furnished living room. Two men in expensively tailored suits, sitting in brocade-covered chairs, stood up as a slender woman dressed in a Dior gown came into view. Casting a sideways glance at the two handcuffed agents, her voice was low and musical as she spoke, “Godfry, how much longer before the next test?”

“Not before morning Pet. It’s late, why don’t you get some rest?”

The woman nodded as she turned to go upstairs. Schlamm gestured for the guards to remove the UNCLE agents.

 

**_Back at New York Headquarters_ **

“Really, I’m quite all right,” assured Cathy sipping her tea. An UNCLE jet had whisked them back to the New York office. The rest of the team was making a careful search of the area, particularly in Roscoe where intelligence now had good reason to suspect the satrap was still located.

“Quite so, however I believe you should stay in headquarters tonight, just to be sure. It may not be the Carlton, but you’ll be comfortable.”

“I suppose you’re right. But I—”

The shrill sound of a communicator cut her off.

“Excuse me. Waverly here…”

_“I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir, but there’s a man in Del Floria’s that insists on seeing you immediately.”_

“Who is it?”

_“He didn’t say, Sir, but he also wants to see Mrs. Callum.”_

“Patch through the camera.”

Cathy gasped as she stared over Waverly’s shoulder at the man glaring into the small closed-circuit television. “Why that’s Simon!”

“We had better see him before things get out of hand…”

 

_**Early morning, May 11, 1968, Roscoe, Pennsylvania** _

Napoleon looked around the cell appraisingly. The trip down had passed in a blur—they’d scarcely eaten before collapsing on the cots. The cell seemed uniquely located inside some kind of coal mine underneath the basement of the house. _Trust Thrush to come up with yet another way to incarcerate us._

They’d been roused at dawn for the Nurse’s visit when he’d been unceremoniously handcuffed to the bars. Illya suffered stoically under the less than gentle ministrations by the nurse sniffing derisively, “A waste of my time!” as she cleansed and bandaged the wound. 

The guards were waiting. The nurse gone, Solo’s handcuffs were once again removed. As he rubbed his wrists, one of the guards moved just out of sight down the hall. There was a click followed by a crackle and hum.

“If yunz like it _hot_ , go ahead and touch the bars,” they chucked evilly. “That’s 3-phase 440 current running through them.” On that note, the guards left.

The chances for escape had just declined sharply. 

“That is new.”

Napoleon stopped his restless recheck of the cell to look at his partner resting on one of the cots, “How’s that?”

“The electrified bars weren’t here before… or, at least weren’t live at the time.”

“Hmmm, I don’t suppose you have any of your devices left? An exploding button—”

“Napoleon, surely you jest. I gave you those things earlier.”

His partner looked askance. “You mean you didn’t hold back anything?”

Illya sighed, “My lock-pick. But I can’t use it with the ‘hot’ bars, at least not without awkward ramifications.”

Napoleon leaned against the stone wall. “I’m in the same boat except…”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Except…?”

“I happen to have a detonator inside one of my molars.”

For a moment Illya looked perplexed, his brows knitting together in concentration. He grinned suddenly. “That should act as a kind of breaker converting to a single-phase which pushing through should blow the entire circuit.”

 

The spectacular array of sparks shot out from the panel across the hall and through the bars! Everything went dark for a few minutes until the back-up generators kicked in, emergency lights filtering dimly through the increasingly dense smoke. The bars now ‘dead’ they made short work of the lock and scrambled out. The elevator was out of the question—too dangerous. Narrow emergency stairs were off to the side but… a bit obvious.

Resigned Napoleon started for the stairs when Illya suddenly veered off in the opposite direction. “There’s another way…” he gestured. Heading down the hall he led his partner down a short set of crude stairs to a large wooden door. 

Opening it cautiously, Solo’s eyes widened. On the other side was an immense room—a cave, with a low, stone ceiling. At the far end was a conveyer belt with large buckets attached at six foot intervals. Glancing back at his partner, he saw a glint of mischief. “You have got to be kidding…”

“It’s this or the elevator.”

“Do you even know how to work this thing?”

The left eyebrow rose.

In minutes the motor caught with a roar. Another switch had the belt running.

“It’s how they get the coal to the surface!” Illya shouted to be heard above the racket.

When they reached the regular basement, maybe some ten minutes of bumpy ride later, they were both trembling from the effort of hanging on. Hopefully Schlamm and his people were getting the ‘big wigs’ off to safely. 

“Now!” motioned Solo, rolling off the belt onto the floor into a crouch, Illya following a moment later. 

The basement suddenly flooded with light and in the deafening silence the familiar whine of Thrush rifles. They were surrounded!

“I see you have finally arrived,” Schlamm’s voice was taunting, “You have caused a great deal of inconvenience. If Central did not prize your capture, you would be killed right now.”

Solo and Kuryakin stood silently.

The phone rang. Holding his hand over the receiver, the guard announced, “Doctor, it’s Herr Mohn.”

Schlamm tightened his lips. A few terse words in German and Schlamm hung up forcefully. Glowering, he spat out orders to his men, “We leave now!” He pointed to one of the armed men, “You! Go to my office and box up everything from the files. Get a couple of men and load up the safe—inside the deacon’s bench—bring everything!” He glanced at his watch before waving his other hand wildly. “Move! We only have twenty minutes before the tanks go!” 

The permeating smell of smoke was everywhere, thick and hazy, making it hard to see. As the already frenzied activity around them increased, Solo glanced over at his partner. Handcuffed once again, at least this time it was in front. 

Herded out toward the waiting truck they were joined by a tall, thin man who, by the way Schlamm greeted him was the man in charge. An almost imperceptible flinch told Solo that his partner knew this man, and not in a good way.

“The guests are safely away,” the German-accented voice was harsh. Raking cold eyes over the prisoners, he snorted, “Perhaps you will manage to hold onto this one.”

“What has happened, mein Herr?” Schlamm asked nervously.

“He managed to break free in the chaos, however,” a cruel tightening of his lips twisted into a sneer, “since he headed down toward the mine, I took the liberty of firing the explosive to seal the entrance.”

A brief expression of regret passed over Schlamm’s face. “A pity—I would have liked to run more tests.”

“Oh…?” dangerously.

“It is not a problem,” Schlamm continued hastily, “I can complete my analyses as soon as I retrieve my back-up supply of Schlamminate-RD. That should satisfy—”

A rumble could be heard and the house shook slightly from the vibration.

Shoving the prisoners carelessly into the back of the truck, doors slammed shut, engines whined and gears rumbled as they labored up the steep driveway then back down the narrow, twisting road toward the river. Suddenly a loud explosion shook the ground! Rocks loosened and began falling, bouncing off the truck and on the road, the truck swerving wildly to avoid the larger ones.

As they reached the bottom, Solo could see a huge spire of angry black smoke and flames rise above the pines through the small windows in the back. He could hear Schlamm speaking as they reached the main road and headed west toward the bridge.

“I own a small house across the river—not far.” 

“A house?”

“Yes, I have had it for a long time. It is a duplex. One side is usually rented out to some commoners to keep it safe from vandalism.”

“Are you not opening yourself unnecessarily to speculation?”

Schlamm chuckled, “Most of the time they are too drunk to notice anything. Wait! Slow down!” Schlamm screamed his orders to the driver, “Do not exceed the speed limit by even one kilometer!” His tone modulated back down, “There is a speed trap in Dunlevy. When the Allenport-Fayette City ferry was running, I never had to worry about this petty bureaucracy but now...” He wiped his brow before muttering under his breath, “I also had a tunnel that ran underneath the Monongahela, but the explosion—”

“ _Halten sie ihr Maul_!” Mohn spat impatiently.

Offended, but effectively put in his place, Schlamm resolutely remained silent for the rest of the ride over the bridge on the interstate and the short distance to Fayette City. The tiny town had a couple of one-way streets designed to push traffic through as quickly as possible lined with houses crowded together like brownstones. Turning south they stopped in front of a very old house on the side street. Railroad tracks ran parallel between the dirt road and the river, a tall, steep ferry ramp sloping under the trestle. Looking around the all-but deserted neighborhood through the dirty windows, Solo could see Schlamm and a couple of his men walk through the front door on the left side of the unpainted duplex. He gave a speaking glance to Illya: _make a diversion._

Illya moaned quietly, then louder. He began to shiver.

The two guards inside the truck glanced at the prisoner with disinterest, but returned to their lookout duties.

Another cry of pain, this one quite loud.

“Be quiet, you!” 

A louder moan.

The guard, irritated that his warning wasn’t heeded moved closer. Immediately, Kuryakin yanked the guard down with his legs before kicking him unconscious. The other guard got to his feet but as he did, Solo knocked him senseless as well. 

Kuryakin grabbed the Thrush weapon as he stood up quickly. “We’ll have to get inside. That extra compound—we must destroy it!”

Napoleon had been frisking the guards. Keys in hand he undid their handcuffs before carefully opening the door of the van. It was pitch black except for a rear yard light two doors down. Creeping up on the porch, they checked the door—unlocked! Inside they could hear talking from the back. The layout was simple; a front room, bedroom and kitchen all opening into each other. Slipping into the dark bedroom they could see the large kitchen was a step down. 

“Here it is.” Schlamm sounded satisfied, “Now all that remains is getting to the alternate lab where I will perform the final phase. We can then deliver Solo and Kuryakin to Central!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Solo was calm as he allowed his weapon to become visible in the kitchen. Staying inside the relative darkness he gestured with the gun. “I’ll take that package now,” 

“I do not think so, Mr. Solo,” Schlamm was contemptuous, “You may have your weapon trained on me, but my people have their weapons trained on Mr. Kuryakin. A stalemate, I think.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Indeed! Shall we test it?”

“What? Run the risk of upsetting your neighbors? Tsk, tsk.”

“Come now, surely you have heard of silencers?” Schlamm’s eyes flicked to a spot just left of Solo. “However, I believe if you listen closely you will detect the sound of… checkmate.”

The tell-tale whine of Thrush rifles, like the singing of mosquitoes filled the room, but the cock of a gun near his left ear was quite clear. He strained to hear something from his partner.

“Ooof—”

The cry, cut off abruptly, was accompanied by a scuffle and small thud. Schlamm glanced dispassionately at the fallen agent.

“Illya?” No answer.

“I have no more time for this. So you die; Central will understand.”

Solo capitulated, setting his borrowed weapon carefully on the floor, thumbing the safety back into place. Two guards immediately grabbed him, one twisting his arm painfully behind his back.

A quick glance at his dazed partner was all he had time for as Mohn stepped smartly into the room.

“Is this a sample of your… work?” Mohn was openly contemptuous.

“It is under control,” Schlamm tried to appease, “We can still complete the necessary tests once we get to the other laboratory.”

“Thrush may feel differently once they are fully apprised of the situation.”

“There is nothing to dissuade them from the proposal! My tests have thus far—”

“Enough! I will take Solo to Central now. As to Kuryakin… you have twenty-four hours.

Napoleon sagged slightly, appearing defeated while inwardly trying to come up with a plan. He didn’t know how much he could count on Illya. There had to be _something…_

“How much longer?”

Napoleon could hear Mohn becoming increasingly impatient. 

_Good… that could work in their favor._

An overhead light snapped on in the middle room. Furnished with heavy, old-fashioned furniture there was nothing that could be used as a weapon. The only things not anchored and small enough to use were the pillows on the tall, iron bed and a row of souvenir salt and pepper shakers in a wall niche; he wondered idly if they were filled. Schlamm was still in the kitchen carefully lifting a small metal box.

_That must be the element—he had to destroy that package._

Glancing over at his partner, he was relieved to see him blink his eyes and look around surreptitiously. Catching his eye, he signaled, _‘get ready’._

They waited...

Schlamm stumbled on the small rug in the kitchen. As he did, all eyes shifted over automatically. Seizing the brief moment of inattention, Solo twisted around and snatched the rifle from the guard, firing off a round, instantly killing the guard closest to him. At the same moment, Kuryakin rolled and knocked the other guard from his feet, kicking away the fallen weapon. One of the guards from the kitchen dropped; the other ducked behind and fired off a few shots. Schlamm and Mohn ducked back into the kitchen.

The front door burst opened and more guards poured inside bringing the odds once again in Thrush’s favor. 

“Kill them!” Schlamm was furious, “Now!”

The guards brought up their rifles when Mohn’s curt order stopped them.

“ _Stoppen!_ ”

The guards froze.

“ _I_ give the orders here.” Disdain dripped from Mohn’s voice. “I trust you will remember that in the future.”

Silence.

Finally Schlamm ventured to say, “My apologies, mein Herr. I thought you—”

“That was your mistake, Schlamm, thinking outside of your small scientific endeavors. Gather up your materials—you have,” he glanced at his watch, “five minutes—no more.” Looking at the guards, he ordered, “Secure these men and get them ready for transport to Central. If they resist, shoot them.”

Catching Illya’s eye, Napoleon sent his apologies. _It was fun while it lasted, Tovarisch._

Illya blinked. _It’s been a pleasure, my friend._

They were shoved back into the front room under guard. Kuryakin was bound as Schlamm slowly and carefully placed his supply of the element into a large leather case. He was securing the top when a knock came to the door. The knock repeated, this time more insistent. The guards hesitated, not certain what they should do. 

“Answer it!” Mohn was terse.

Shoving the agents back into the middle room and snapping off the light, the first guard handed his rifle to one of the others and strode to the door. There was an angry murmur of voices; apparently the neighbors didn’t like the ruckus and were complaining. Napoleon glanced at his partner— _now or never…_

_Now or never…_ Illya lunged! Using his bound hands as a bludgeon he caught the Thrush guard in the face breaking his nose and knocking him out. Grabbing up the fallen weapon he started to shoot, but before he could, another gun fired! His own weapon discharged an instant later and the guard went down. 

As Illya moved, Solo karate chopped the nearest guard snagging the gun as he fell. Bringing it up, he shot the other guards before they could return fire. 

A noise behind him—Schlamm! Spinning around he shot the Thrush scientist reflexively as the man rushed him!

The firefight seemed over. Eyes darting around the room, everything seemed secure as Napoleon turned back to his partner. “Let’s finish—” He broke off suddenly when stunned, he watched Illya sag slowly to the floor, his legs no longer able to support him! That was when he saw the fresh blood... Heart racing he dashed over to his fallen partner. Dropping down beside him he checked breathlessly for a pulse.

Illya’s eyes fluttered open at his touch. He blinked, eyes glazed with pain. “You… hurt?” he gasped brokenly, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth.

For a long moment Napoleon couldn’t answer—overwhelmed as he stared at the horrific wound. “No,” swallowing hard, “you’re the one with the honors this time.” 

“Na…pol’n…? I…” choking on blood.

Napoleon cradled his friend trying to make it easier to breathe.

Breath hitching in pain, Illya tried again, “S-sorry… too slow…”

“Take it easy Tovarisch. We’ll get you fixed up,” Napoleon tried to reassure.

A faint grin, “Bad… liar… my friend.” Another shuddering gasp. Then in a clear voice, “I’m fine…” The light in the crystal blue eyes faded. The ragged breathing stopped his body suddenly grew lax. 

“Illya? Illya!” Frantically checking for a pulse, Napoleon pleaded softly, “Oh Illya…”

Nothing. 

The jolt of sorrow washed over Napoleon as he gently closed his partner’s sightless eyes.

Instincts and training kicked in through his haze of grief, but not before he heard the click of a gun being cocked behind him. Turning around, he found himself looking directly into the barrel of Illya’s fallen weapon!

Mohn gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Yes, Mr. Solo, I see you understand.” His eyes swept over the body of Solo’s partner. “Thrush Central will have to do without their prize.” He snapped his fingers and ordered sharply, “Prepare to fire the place. I want nothing left of Schlamm’s errors!” 

Turning back to Solo, his lips curved up in a faint smile, “And now—”

His finger tightened on the trigger, the report deafening… but Solo never felt the shot. Instead he was stunned to see a small, dark hole appear in Mohn’s forehead.

A bedraggled Illya Kuryakin, filthy with coal dust, blood on the side of his face staining into his hair, staggered from out of the dark opening in what Solo thought was a closet; gun held firmly in one hand, the other supporting his ribs.

“Illya—” Napoleon was numb with shock. In those dark moments following his partner’s… death, he’d completely forgotten about the ‘other’ Illya Kuryakin!

_Illya…?_

“Napoleon—you okay?”

Stunned he stared blankly at the bodies before hastily turning away from Illya’s— He spun back staring hungrily at his friend.

_Illya’s alive!_

A megawatt smile. “Absolutely, partner!”

Illya sighed, shaking his head indulgently. 

Needing to regain his composure, Solo’s eyes fell on the fallen case containing Schlamm’s element. It really should be destroyed…

A ruckus at both the front and back doors! Napoleon supporting his partner protectively, pulled them both into the wall opening for cover and waited...

Unexpectedly face to face with his superior, Napoleon tried to brush off his filthy, coal-dust and blood-stained clothing to make himself more presentable— _impossible_!

“Mr. Solo, I see you have everything under control,” Waverly’s tone was dry. His sharp eyes took in the scene, widening slightly at the dead Kuryakin. After a brief pause he looked hard at his Chief Enforcement Agent and _live_ Kuryakin, “I look forward to hearing your report.”

 

The paint was confiscated by Section III and in an unusual move, would be applied to a bank of UNCLE-owned brownstones due for renovation, the apartments remaining empty until the paint was safely inert. Thrush record books noting the victims’ names with dates of contact and payments were also confiscated, the tapes safely destroyed; dealing with them would be a matter for other agencies to attend.

“—and that’s about it, Sir,” The debriefing had been long and… emotional. “We were shocked to learn about Lisa. What put you onto her?”

Waverly snorted in disgust, “The evidence against Mr. Kuryakin seemed a bit too obvious. I did my own checking and discovered several waylaid communications. Some of my War connections revealed the sleeper cell with Miss Rogers.”

The door slid open admitting Simon Carter ‘Callum’ and his wife. 

Cathy walked over and gave Napoleon a kiss on the cheek. Smiling happily at Waverly she reached over to give Illya’s good hand a squeeze.

“We can’t thank you enough, Alex,” Simon shook Waverly’s hand warmly before standing next to his wife and catching her other hand in his, pulling her close.

Waverly harrumphed, “You should know that Miss Rogers’ real name was Elise Soulier; she took her mother’s maiden name before coming to the U. S. Her father—Henri Soulier—was the traitor who sold out to the Germans. Bad business that.”

“So it’s finally over,” remarked Cathy.

Simon shot an oddly familiar glare at his wife before murmuring, “You took too many chances.”

Bestowing an indulgent smile to her husband, she simply squeezed his hand.

Simon cleared his throat, “Why don’t we celebrate? I understand New York has some really fine eating establishments.” 

“Every type of cuisine you can imagine—” began Napoleon. 

“Do you like jazz?” interjected Illya.

As Simon’s eyes lit up Napoleon was again struck by the uncanny likeness in the two men as everyone started out for a night on the town.


	6. EPILOGUE

In their shared office, Illya read through the final report, curious to see how his partner handled his ‘death.’ He still felt astonishment at the turn his life had taken. He would accompany the Carters back to England in a few days for a week during his convalescence. Mr. Waverly had seemed very pleased with that decision…

Spotting a rather serious omission, Illya read through the report again.

“Napoleon? I notice there’s nothing here about the Schlamminate-RD.”

“Oh… yes, well… It was destroyed so there didn’t seem to be any reason to bring it up.” 

_Napoleon acting defensive… why…?_

“You have doubts,” Illya stated flatly.

Eyebrows raised, Napoleon’s tone was confident, “Absolutely not!” 

“Oh?” Illya’s tone was highly skeptical.

“Of course not. I could tell the two of you apart from the very beginning.”

“Really.” 

Napoleon sighed and shot his cuffs. “I just knew!” At the burgeoning storm in the Russian’s glare, Napoleon continued hastily, “Look, we both know that there’s… well, a _connection_ between us. There’s no scientific or rational reasoning behind it—it just _is_.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied his partner. “We can be grateful for one thing at least…”

“That would be…?”

“The duplicate could have been yours. Unlike the one from The August Affair, this one would not have made mistakes.” He pretended to think for a moment before giving a wicked grin. “The world would not have been safe from the unimpeded libido of two Napoleon Solos!”

“Illya—” gritted Napoleon

“You could have had that threesome you’re always talking about…”

“That’s it! Just for that, you’re buying dinner.”

Illya grimaced.

 

**_Three months later_ **

New York was stifling this time of year, but the weekend loomed ahead and Napoleon strode down the corridors of headquarters with a purposeful step. Although he had a friendly smile as he flirted with the pretty women he encountered on the way to his office, it was more...perfunctorily—the smile never quite reaching his eyes. The last couple of missions had bordered on fiasco. The legendary partnership had fallen out of sync bringing an edge of wariness and tension. Striding inside determinedly, he stopped short when he saw his partner sitting at his desk staring, apparently deep in thought. Coming up behind him, he cleared his throat.

Startled, Illya jumped slightly, his hand reaching automatically for his weapon even as he realized it was his partner. Slightly embarrassed, he growled, “Don’t you have somewhere you should be?”

“This is my office,” observed Napoleon. He didn’t mention the fact that _before_ Illya had always known without looking when his partner entered a room… Glancing over at his desk he wondered if there was anything he had to finish before he left for the day. Seeing the thin folder in his ‘in’ box, he picked it up and glanced inside. “So, what was it you were so engrossed in?” he asked as he flipped through the papers.

“Just something Mr. Waverly wanted me to investigate.”

Sensing misdirection, Napoleon walked over to look at what Illya was working on. As his partner turned over the papers, Napoleon reached out to snag them. “Ah, ah, ah, Tovarisch.”

Relinquishing his hold, Illya shot a glare at his teasing partner. “I haven’t _finished_ —”

“Um hmm,” was Napoleon’s distracted response as he skimmed over the papers. Reading further, his eyes riveted on the final paragraph of the cover sheet. He looked up to glare at his partner. “ _When_ were you going to inform me of this little discovery, oh partner mine?”

Illya rolled his eyes.

“You let me worry whether you were the original or copy and you never _said_ anything?”

A tiny twitch of his lips. “You told me you had no doubts.”

Ignoring that Napoleon focused back on the paragraph and began reading aloud, “—the compounds described within the parameters of this experiment should be observed within a strictly monitored environment… etc, etc.” The duplicated subject will expire within a projected timeframe of not less than six months and not more than nine months. _Symptoms:_ Muscle function will deteriorate sharply. Additionally, bone mass will begin to lose calcium at a daily rate of approximately two per cent.” Here he looked over the paper and after delivering a truly vitriolic glare at his partner continued, “These will begin to manifest between _forty five and sixty days_.” He shook the papers menacingly, at the same time moving well within Illya’s personal space, “Why,” he demanded, “didn’t you let me in on this little bit of news?”

A dismissive shrug.

Napoleon glared.

A sly grin crossed Kuryakin’s face. “Napoleon, you do realize that this proves beyond all doubt that I truly am the original and not the copy?”

The germ of doubt which had been festering over the last few months suddenly fell away in a wave of relief. “So, am I to take it that all this time, you’ve really been… yourself?”

Illya smirked, eyes dancing as the doubts _he’d_ held himself, vanished.

“Dinner?”

“Who’s paying?”

A hopeful look.

Illya sighed dramatically.

“Well…?”

Illya scowled.

Solo’s grin grew broader. “Come on, partner, I’ll even let you choose.” He gave a friendly punch.

Glancing up at the security monitor, Waverly watched his top team exit through Del Floria’s Tailor Shop. Walking shoulder to shoulder, Solo touched his partner’s arm in friendly camaraderie as they left for the day.

Swiveling around in his chair, he depressed a button revealing a small, hidden safe. Spinning the dial, he entered the combination, opened it and removed a manila envelope sealed with an old-fashioned seal of wax and signet imprint. A relaxing of his lips suggested a smile as he slipped a finger under the flap breaking the seal, opened the packet. Pulling out the few sheets of notepaper, he lit his pipe. He didn’t really need to read the hand-written notes again; he already knew the contents.

_“After the forty-five to sixty day window has expired, the duplicated subject will expire within a projected timeframe of not less than six months and not more than nine months.”_

He read further.

_“—the serum will have no effect on a healthy man. However, this serum will stabilize the components thus allowing the subject to live out a normal lifespan becoming a permanent duplicate in every way.”_

Waverly couldn’t help but notice how ‘off’ Solo’s and Kuryakin’s performance had been of late. The last few missions had been especially stressful and less than brilliant. It wasn’t a stretch to see the problem lay in doubts about ‘which Kuryakin actually survived.’

It had been a simple matter to arrange for Medical to inject Kuryakin with the ‘vitamin supplement’ along with his other vaccines during his annual checkup. By allowing Kuryakin access to the typed research notes— _removing all information pertaining to the serum_ —his agent would come to the natural conclusion.

Taking another puff on his pipe, Waverly drew out his matches, lit the papers one by one, and burned them completely in his ashtray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _…Author’s note:  
>  The British television series Colditz, starring David McCallum, ran from 1972-1974 following The Man From U.N.C.L.E._


End file.
